Bedside Manner
by Lunar Orphan
Summary: Well, with John forgiving him and Sherlock not dead Baker Street should be back up to full running capacity. But there's just one little problem. John's wife. And not all the cases or drugs in the world can make that problem go away and bring John back to him. But when Sherlock starts drowning in his drugs, how far will John go to save him?


Check it out, I'm not dead! I just am seriously internet deprived. Anyway this probably isn't a oneshot, almost positively isn't. But for now please enjoy!

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_** - Though really that's a bit obvious...

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Sherlock inhaled deeply, pushing the syringe down with his thumb, liquid fire pouring into his veins, burning life into his core. He barely registered the steps coming up the stairs.

He took off the tourniquet, but made no move to hide anything. His drugs were sitting on the living room table for all the world to see. He was too high to really care.

"Sherlock I- Sherlock!" John rushed over to Sherlock, eyes running over the things on the table. He grabbed Sherlock's arm, looking at the fresh puncture hole and the several healing ones around it.

"Damn it Sherlock! The drugs!"

"They're on the table." Sherlock's voice sounded a bit muffled to his ears, but John's didn't. Curious. He wondered why that was, but didn't dawdle too much on it, as John was obviously about to launch into some long rant about how drugs were bad and being healthy was good.

"Yes I can see that. Damn it Sherlock! We've been over this! You said you would stop this. Get help!"

"I'm Sherlock bloody Holmes. I don't need help!" 'Except from you.' Drugs made him unbelievably honest, if only in his head. His brain was too addled with drugs. He saw no reason to lie.

"You do need help Sherlock!"

"Oh why?" Sherlock threw his hands up, as if he'd been having a drawn out, long argument, instead of this brief spat.

"Because I don't want to come home one day and find you dead on the floor from over dose!" John eyes were always so genuine when it came to emotion. Sherlock could never figure out how to do that.

Express genuine emotion.

Well, that wasn't true.

He could express anger with his eyes very well.

Quiet, seething anger. It was exactly the look he was giving John now.

"Baker Street hasn't been your home for a long time." He said it in a dark tone, as if blaming John for his drug habit, for his depression, for his crippling loneliness, for John running off and being happy.

And that was not lost on the doctor.

"And whose fault is that?!" He screamed it, like he did when he was angry. It made something in Sherlock twitch. He didn't want to hear it again. It left him feeling sick, infested.

"...I see, john. Well thank you for stopping by. But if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my business."

"Getting high is not business Sherlock, it's dangerous." He said it in that stupid, 'I know what I'm talking about because I'm a doctor' voice. It was convenient when he used it on others, but not Sherlock. It just ticked him off.

"Yeah well it's my life, John! I'll do what I damn well please! You've made it very apparent I am to continue being punished for my decision on that rooftop! For protecting you. So, if you'd be so kind as to get the hell out of my flat so I can force myself to stop all the damn noise!" Sherlock's eyes glowed in a way John hadn't seen since... In a very long time.

John never took the time to notice. He didn't want to notice. He wasn't really ready to be the John Watson Sherlock had known, he never would be. He wasn't Sherlock's blogger anymore, he was Mary's husband. Sherlock was right though, like always, he was lost without his blogger. But if he'd noticed Sherlock's pain, he wouldn't be able to stay away.

Sherlock had come back from wherever he had been during the two years John thought he was dead, but he never really returned. He never really seemed... alive anymore.

His once crystal sharp eyes that saw everything, observed everything now watched the world through a dim haze.

John had no idea that he was the sole root of the problem. The good doctor knew he was in part to blame, but he also accused Moriarty, and the adventurous life Sherlock had surely been living before returning to London.

Like John returning from Afghanistan. He missed the battle, the real battle. Not the child's play London provided.

But that wasn't it, not really. Maybe Sherlock didn't even really comprehend it.

John was Sherlock's life. His world. His real self, his real life had been put on pause when he jumped from that rooftop, he'd assumed John's had too.

It had only been two bloody years. Why did he have to go and get married? Worse yet, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to dislike her. She did deserve John.

But she didn't need him like Sherlock did.

John should've chosen Sherlock.

But he didn't.

And then, every morning, the sight of John's empty chair was too much for him. And now, the sight of the empty place where the chair once sat is too much.

John. John. John. Everywhere. Always John. Like a damn broken record. Cases didn't help, violin didn't help, smoking didn't help.

Drugs barely helped. He wanted to melt. He couldn't observe anymore. Too many deductions, too many connections. It was all about John.

And John scarcely thought of Sherlock, he knew.

It was clear by the number of visits, timing, and John's state of dress when he came over.

Deductions he didn't want to make.

"Sherlock, what do you mean the noise?" John's voice was much softer. He was trying the caring approach. Sherlock knew that trick. He was using that stupid gentle tone to try and calm Sherlock.

"Thoughts, John! My thoughts! My thought." He switched to the singular he knew it should be.

"Thoughts?" John ignored it. Subconscious perceptiveness or lack of attentiveness?

"Yes the thoughts. The words. The questions. Always." Sherlock rolled over on the sofa. He didn't much want to talk to John anymore. He was too high, he didn't see a reason to lie.

Which made talking especially dangerous.

"What questions Sherlock?" John reached out a hand and placed it on Sherlocks shoulder. The drugged detective jerked it away roughly. He didn't want to be touched by the hand of a man that held Mary and ignored Sherlock.

It just wasn't fair. But it was as it needed to be.

'I deserve to be alone, after all. I've spent the bulk of my life pissing people off and intruding on their privacy. People are idiots anyway, why should I want one? Sure, John made it different. He changed things. But then I changed them too. I made my decision and now I'm being punished for it. Punished for hurting him, even if it was to protect him. This is the price of suicide.'

"Just leave, John." He hissed darkly.

"No. Tell me where your stash is." John demanded. "Now, Sherlock!"

'Sherlock!' Sherlock plugged his ears. John's voice. Screaming for him. The moment it all came crashing down.

"Sherlock please! I'm just trying to help you."

'Let me through, he's my friend.' His voice had been so raw.

Sherlock sat up suddenly. John had moved from when he'd rolled over. The doctor was now sitting on the table, Sherlocks drugs out of sight.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at him sharply.

"You asked me for a miracle."

"What..?" John furrowed his brows. It was familiar. He got that look a lot. He got confused a lot. It was usually amusing, now it was frustrating.

"At my grave. You asked me for a miracle. I gave it to you. I returned. You asked me for a word. Just one word. I gave it to you! I've done everything you've asked of me and this is the kind of life I have to live because of it. Strung out, never getting to see you. So no, John. Listening to you hasn't gone so well in the past. I think it's time I ignore your advice."

John took a moment to absorb everything, each and every word. And finally, his response came.

"I asked you for one word?"

"Yes, John. A word. Something to clue you in that my suicide was a fake. I did that!"

"You did that...?"

"It's a trick. Only a magic trick." Sherlock quoted himself. He'd said that to John while on the roof of Bart's. Maybe John never read into it because he didn't want to give himself hope like that. Because it never being true would destroy him even more.

Sherlock had told him. It was veiled and buried in an answer to a different question, but there.

"Why did you think I kept sending you flyers for magic shows? To go see illusionists after I realised you were too thick to pick up on my clue."

"That was you? I figured it was spam. I even asked the post office to stop forwarding me the post from Baker Street because it was always addressed to you."

"It was addressed to me so you could see. Sherlock. Illusion. Magic trick. You blind half wit!"

"Why couldn't you just really tell me? Come see me?"

"Because your grief had to be real! And because... If I came back I'd never be able to leave." He saw no reason to lie. He was too strung out.

"Sherlock... I can't do it again. I can't play sidekick. I've got Mary."

"And that was your mistake. I did my part. And you left. So go. Leave. It's what you're good at." Sherlock laid back down and rolled over.

John glared at the mans back.

"I'm coming back tomorrow. I want you sober when we talk about this. Stay off the drugs Sherlock. Or next time, I'll take you home with me." John threatened, leaving the flat he used to call home.

But those were the days of bitter memories and sweet nightmares.

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Well there ya go, chapter one or maybe the whole thing... I'm way too indecisive about these kinds of things... I hope you enjoyed reading!

Review!

**-Lunar**


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